We walk the dusk, the gloaming, cuffing The Meadows, watching the sliver/slipper of the moon evading all attempts to capture it on film. We walk past the gable-ended houses, the closes, the fringes of the university.
We note the places where the light gathers like dust in the overshadowed courtyards.
We see the old hairdressers that has been there since I can remember, Violet in the violet hour. Kitsch becoming something else, more elusive. An old photo of yourself as a child, with relatives now dead, a time you can’t remember.
We walk past modernity, symbol of the New Scots settling in. The lighted windows, the rushing cars.
Above are the gardens you cannot get in to, looking out on the field (below) that belongs to everyone.
We cut a path into the new development on the park, the looming offices, mostly empty. All lights on here, ready for some bright future pre-recession Edinburgh seemed to hold.
And there is space for the dark too. And it all soon passes, and we walk back to our flat, and into our own box of warmth and light, however parceled and temporary.